


Down on the Corner

by purrslink



Category: A-Team (TV), A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: AU - 1920s Jazz Era, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Slash Undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:11:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrslink/pseuds/purrslink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Normally street musicians were only worth a passing glance to Templeton Peck. That is, until he met a very, very special man one late afternoon...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down on the Corner

_1924, New Orleans, Louisiana_

When he first saw the man he was on the corner of Bourbon and Dumaine, dusty newsboy hat on the ground, long fingers on those frosted gold valves, playing the sweetest, sweetest version of "When the Saints Go Marching In" he'd ever heard outside of the mighty riverboats that steamed along on the even mightier Mississippi. He wasn't a music aficionado, not at all - that was his boss's cup of tea - but he knew what was good when he heard it and this... 

Well, it made him stop on the opposite side of the street, staring at those nimble fingers adding grace notes and slides and scales and flairs where there weren't any before.

Sporadic and just this side of unusual.

Beautiful.

And unpredictable, as "This Little Light of Mine" began to weave through the regular melody.

He couldn't not get closer and so after waiting for the trolley to bustle by he crossed the cobblestone, nodding to those who he knew and after flashing a smile at the lovely Miss Jane Moreau in her pink chiffon trestles and wide white hat, he found himself standing at the corner of the walk, joining a small crowd of bystanders as they laughed and giggled and made eyes at the musician.

Up close he frowned however, unsure as to why the crowd of mostly women twirling parasols and hiding underneath cloche hats where giggling and flashing smiles as fast and furious as they were. Shaggy brown hair pulled back in a fashion not befitting a man, ill-fitted grey double breasted vest with a partially unbuttoned, patched white dress shirt hanging off long gangly limbs, pants so long they hid the socks, but not so long that they didn't hide the fact that he wasn't sure if those shoes were black or brown, there was nothing particularly impressive or distinctive about the man. 

Without the trumpet, he could easily assume the man was from the docks, or even one of the Bayou folk who ventured out for a taste of the town, cheap bourbon, cheap women and cheap everything else.

But as he shook his head over the fuss and turned to leave, bright brown eyes found his, searing into his mind and pinning down his thoughts with an intensity that surprised him. As if the man could see his first impressions and was evaporating them with an intensity that was not one he associated with the backwoods or the dock or even the factory.

There was power in those eyes. Eyes that shot him through and knew, just knew what he was thinking. Knew so fast he found himself - Templeton Peck - stepping back, caught off guard.

And that in itself was a hard thing to do with him.

Those brown eyes twinkled at his surprise, laughing at him with their bright, clear depths even as those long, pale fingers played. He found himself at the receiving end of a joyful wink before the eyes flicked away, leaving behind a wake of smoldering heat. 

It was in the moment that he had a better idea of why the girls tittered and threw in pennies, nickels, whatever they had, and as the song ended several of the younger ladies lingered to catch a polite nod before bustling down the side walk, curls bobbing as they laughed over the bright-eyed trumpeter on the corner. But why he should feel this same twisting inside he wasn't sure, just like he wasn't sure why he stayed rooted where he was.

He watched the women go before turning back to the man. "That's an interesting rendition you did."

The smile he got was unexpected - bright, lop sided, and wide. "Depends, is that an interesting 'I like it' or an interesting 'why ruin a good tune' type of interesting?"

He blinked at that, at the easy drawl it was said in, and at the lack of judgment in the statement. It was merely a teasing question, nothing more, nothing less. "I wouldn't be standing here if I didn't like it."

That got him a high, bright laugh. "Why, then, thank you very much, sir! Figured the saints might be gettin' tired of the cut 'n dry version, so decided to add some of that good ol' gospel tradition in with it all. They are saints after all - fairly certain they'd appreciate the tribute."

"I see. And all that tribute, that for the saints or the mere mortals listening on the ground?" he drawled, glancing at the laden hat.

The comment only drew a non-apologetic smile from the trumpeter. "Unfortunately the saints' goin' rate these days, while plentiful enough for the visceral side of things, lacks in providing for the somatic department, if you know what I mean, sir."

It took him a minute to wrap his mind around that, even while part of him crossed off ideas and impressions of exactly who this stranger was. Not many talked that way, and those that did lived on the same row of houses his employer did, gathering to use such words around terrace tables in the latest London styles and shoes you could tell the color of from miles away. "You from around here?"

As suspected the man shrugged, leaning down to scoop up his hat. "Here and there these days, though if you mean by birth, you're right in assumin' I ain't."

Which explained the twang and the pale skin of the taller man, though not necessarily the odd answer. "And assuming I wasn't?"

"Then why are you askin'?" The trumpeter grinned, and this time there was a guarded tone to the voice, so slight that if you didn't use it yourself from time to time you wouldn't know it was there. At the same time he realized that he also noticed that the tie holding the man's hair back had started to come loose, strands of brown hair plastering themselves to the man's neck. A long, white neck that led the eye down to a pin - two silver bars, tarnished with age, so familiar for some reason - and further down to unbuttoned top buttons of that shirt, firm skin visible underneath.

"Just curious as to where one would hear you play again," he said, a bit slower and keeping his eyes fixed to those brown ones. Away from those curiously unbuttoned buttons. There was something in those eyes that wasn't quite right, something just off enough to make them exciting, a mystery. A puzzle.

Like he was only seeing part of the story, and for him that was never enough.

"Here and there," the man said again, glancing down at his hat. Yet he could see the trumpeters eyes slide up to glance at him through long lashes, assessing him just as he was assessing the man. "But I suppose if you were lookin' on Friday nights, you'd find me at Harold's, off Rue street. Sometimes I play there when the set's too drunk to know which end of the horn they should be blowin'." An amused smiled flashed again. "'Fraid the rest of the time I make like those river boats and go wherever the current takes me."

He couldn't help it, heard it slip out before he could contain the smirk. "At the rate they go, you won't reach the county line before you're sixty."

Another laugh met that and a hand clapped on his shoulder, strong and calloused. "Reckon I won't. Then again, guess I should be glad for the opportunity to hang around here for awhile then, right?"

He just nodded politely, not quite sure what to think of that answer or that manic smile pointed at him, the one that asked too many questions. But he did know protocol and he wasn't raised to be rude, so he dug a hand into his pocket to add to the hat. "Well, welcome to New Orleans."

Blinking a bit at the dollar coin, the brown haired man looked like he couldn't decide whether to shake his hand or hug him. Instead, he settled for running a hand through his hair, forgetting it was tied back. "Why, I do declare, sir, if I'd known you liked jazz that much, I would have played more!"

He had to smile at that, at the light in the man's eyes, at the way the trumpeter shifted from foot to foot unconsciously, hand clutched tightly to his chest, right next to that curious, double-bar pin that he swore he knew from somewhere. "It was well deserved." With that he tipped his hat. "Afternoon."

To his surprise, the trumpeter gave a theatrical bow back before jamming his hat on his head, coins and all, and bringing his trumpet to his lips to play him off down the sidewalk with loud, brassy strains of an improvised set, pennies dripping from underneath the hat brim and creating bright pings as they hit the sidewalk.

An odd man indeed.


End file.
